


North to the Future

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1890s, Bathing/Washing, Dog sledding, Dogs, Friends to Lovers, Gold Rush, M/M, Mutual Pining, Yukon - Freeform, sled dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26920363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock went to the Yukon for adventure and gold, not romance. But he finds it anyway.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is sent in the 1890s which means that it contains dated terms and ideas that are considered offensive as well as animal treatment that was common in that time period. There is also a scene of a dog dying. If any of these these things bother you this probably not a story for you.

The sound of the runners cutting through the hard crust of snow filled the air. His five dog team bounded, energetic despite the hours they had been on trail. He was heading towards a tributary off the river that he suspected would yield good results. He had traded with an indian, his Alaskan husky for a tip on where to find gold that others had not discovered. He said he’d seen it himself, just shining in the water amongst the sediment. Lady was near whelping and Brock couldn’t in good conscious keep her in her traces long. So he said his goodbyes, buried his face in her fur to dry tears he couldn’t let another see. Brock kept reminding himself that it was for the best, that he’d done it for her even though he felt guilty. He’d removed her harness and saved it for a new dog.

The new dog was a blue eyed Alaskan husky named Tiptoes who the seller boasted was light on his feet while on the trails. 

He looked to be in good condition, coat shining and the pads of his feet free from sores and tears. He let Tiptoes approach the team. They whimpered amongst themselves, clearly uncomfortable being in their traces when he wasn’t. He was hesitant and respectful. 

Especially around Scar. 

Scar, an ornery Candian Eskimo dog that had seen hell and back being passed around in boomtowns such as these. He always got nervous, threatened in a way whenever they drove into a city so Brock could restock. Scar had only just adjusted to life without being slave driven and abused. He wasn’t going to tolerate his position being threatened. He made a lunge towards Tiptoes, who, as his name suggested, hopped back looking confused and excited. 

“He’s young’un but he’s strong,” the seller told him. “Twenty five dollars and he’s yours.” 

It was a steep cost, his Seppala Serbian sleddog had only cost him fourteen. But Tiptoes was a good looking dog and he couldn’t leave his team one dog down. Lady was already in the indian’s canoe and headed downstream to his village. “Would’ya accept Twenty two?” 

“Dog like this? He’s worth at least twenty four.” 

“Alright, twenty four.” 

Hands were shook, money exchanged hands and the seller gave Tiptoes one last pat. Tiptoes started to follow and the man kicked snow at him. “Get back.” 

Tiptoes stopped and sat down. He barked, then he whined, and then he howled. Brock didn’t understand how people treated dogs as currency, to be passed without a goodbye. Like they were expendable. It killed him to see some of these dogs. So exhausted they collapsed when they arrived, laying there so depleted and thin. There wasn’t much he could say. The dogs belonged to them, he had no right to intervene despite how badly he wanted to. 

He approached Tiptoes who sprang up, excitedly. 

“There’s a boy.” Brock murmured, running his fingers through his fur. “I think we’ll get along great, won’t we. I won’t get rid of you, I promise.” 

It took time to build trust with a new dog. Tiptoes whined. Dogs were smart. Others might not think they were but Brock knew better. He could see the hurt in Tiptoes’ eyes. He knew he’d been left behind and now his future was a mystery. It would be upsetting for anyone, human or dog. Brock hoped getting him into a harness and back to work would help. Something familiar, something he could bet on. He seemed like he would be a good wheel dog but he was hesitant to place him next to Scar so soon. That was a relationship that would need to be built up. Lady had been his left wheel dog so he would have to move one of his swingers. Billie, his current lead dog, could take over but putting a new dog as the lead was chaos in the making. 

He missed Lady already. 

He got up and clicked his tongue. Tiptoes trailed behind as he went into the store and bought the supplies needed. “Let’s see if where you fit best,” Brock said as he situated Tiptoes into Lady’s harness with some finagling. He held Lady’s collar a moment before he placed it around Tiptoes’ neck. He let out an excited bark, antsy with nerves as he pranced in place, surging forward prematurely. 

“Easy, easy,” Brock said, petting him. 

It worried him a bit. It would take time for them to find the pace they once had with a young dog like Tiptoes pulling so eagerly. It wasn’t something Brock could change -- it would be an adjustment for everyone. Once Tiptoes was in place Brock stood back to admire his new team. His new family. Everyone had come to the Yukon to get rich. Brock was looking for adventure just as much as he was looking for gold. He didn’t participate in the flurry of activity. He didn’t take risks like Chilkoot with its treacherous pass or the White Pass trail that risked sled stopping mud during the thaw. Brock was heading to a place undiscovered. The kind of place only a indian, well versed in these lands, would know. Brock had no reason to think he was a liar. It was only a four day trip so Brock was ready and willing to risk it. 

He called mush and the dogs surged forward. Billie spun around a few times, nipping at Tiptoes’s paws, to which he complained loudly about to Brock. Billie expected order among her team and she wasn’t shy when it came to whipping at a young buck like Tiptoes into shape, using her teeth to say what was what. They only made it 60 miles which, while not ideal, was expected. Tiptoes was a bit disheartened, eyes sad. Billie, once freed, bullied him a bit, clearly annoyed at their lack of true progress. In fact all the dogs seemed annoyed. Tiptoes was strong but he had spurts that threw the sled off angle which put more work on Scar, and Breeze was still adjusting to her new place in the team. 

“Lay off,” Brock as he lit the fire. 

Tiptoes’s tail was down and his ears flat while he told Brock of the injustices being inflicted upon him. Once the fire was going and their water bowls filled, the dogs came to gather around. Tiptoes came up beside Brock, clearly seeking solace from Billie’s rage. “She runs a tight ship, buddy. Once you get in those traces she’s law.” 

Tiptoes shoved himself under Brock’s arm and rested against him. As the sky started to darken Brock went back to the sled. He tossed frozen chips of moose meat to each dog. Scar attempted to scare Tiptoes away -- and nearly succeeded -- before Brock got between them. Scar looked up at him howling in objection as the Tiptoes gulped down his food. 

“No one likes a bully.” 

The only dogs who weren’t interested in punishing Tiptoes for his errors were Bramble and Breeze, both content to lay by the fire and bask. Brock laid out his bedroll and the newest team member came crawling over. It was comical and sad all at once. Dogs sought affection, of that Brock was certain, and it was clear that he was never awarded it. But Tiptoes was seeking it as opposed to Scar who Brock had to convince him was there to help not hurt. 

“I gotta get you some booties,” Brock realized as he removed the snow and ice balled up behind his toes. “Lady’s’ll be too small.” 

Tiptoes just rested his head on Brock’s stomach with a satisfied sigh. Brock pet him as he watched the fire flickering, it’s warmth welcoming. Brock woke up in the morning to a slobbering kiss from Tiptoes who had taken to him quickly, as affection starved dogs would do. It would take time for him to detach himself from Brock’s hip and socialize more with the rest of his team. Brock gave them their morning meal and attached the dogs to the traces once more. Immediately Billie was on Tiptoes case, making her expectations clear with his teeth. Scar was morose as usual, tugging insistently as his way of telling Brock to pack up faster. 

He didn’t get a chance to say mush before they took off. Tiptoes wasn’t perfect, far from it, but they made it ninety miles. Brock began to worry a bit about the food level because a four day trip was looking to six, if not seven. He tried to not worry, telling himself that tomorrow they would double it. Billie still dove at Tiptoes with a snarl so terrifying even Brock was alarmed for a moment. Scar had scuffled with a few of the dogs but they’d been easy to break apart. She got in a bite, a good bite, and Tiptoes wailed so fitfully Brock was certain he’d been seriously injured. Billie seemed annoyed so she stalked over growling at Bramble who seemed curious as to what happened. 

Tiptoes had teeth puncture on his scruff, a superficial wound. “Okay, okay,” Brock sat in the snow beside him and the dog crawled in his lap as if he were dying. “You’re alright you big baby.” 

Tiptoes looked up at him with sad, sad eyes. “I told you. You gotta shape up or she won’t stop.” 

Tiptoes let out a crying whine and Brock just pet him. 

** ** ** **

The trip took six and a half days. Tiptoes having gone two full days with Billie’s wrath falling upon him. It made Brock proud of his team all over again. Brock trusted his dogs, especially Billie. She wasn’t one to throw her weight around, except for when truly necessary. She was agreeable, hard working and loyal. So when she felt Brock, or the team, wasn’t being treated fairly she unloaded upon them an anger fitting of a rabid beast. It was only Billie that had high expectations and everyone was expected to adhere to it. 

Billie stopped short, seeing the man at the same time Brock did. He was hunched over, resting on his haunches panning. He had his own team of dogs, a red and white malamute barking to alert his owner. The man turned, wearing a coonskin hat. He had a thick beard, with a scar cutting through the wild, coarse hair. 

“Well, hello there.” He said, setting aside the pan. “Can I help you?” 

“I… Well, the indian said this was a good place to pan.” 

The man nodded in understanding. “I own this land,” he said. 

Brock held back the urge to swear. “I see. Well we’ll be going then.” 

“I don’t know about that, mister. Gotta bad storming in, I’d say it’ll hit in a day or two.” 

Just his goddamn luck. “There probably aren’t any towns around?” 

“Nah. I’m Jack by the way. Jack Rollins. I don’t mind if you pan here, neither. I’m not much a prospector, I’m just looking for enough to buy more salt so I can brine my fish.” Jack squinted at his dogs. “You got a good looking team there.” 

“I’m not interested in selling or trading,” Brock said immediately because that was always what followed when someone said that. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you either.” The man grinned. “You gotta name?” 

“Brock,” he held out his hand and Jack took it in his own mittened hand. “Brock Rumlow.” 

“It’s an honor to meet you -- and your team. They got names?” 

Brock hadn’t had anyone ask about his dogs before, not like this anyway. They didn’t care about names. They wanted to know age, if they’ve pulled before and if they were strong. 

“This is Scar,” gestured to the grizzled right wheel dog. “Breeze,” he pointed to the eager eyed black and white malamute. “Tiptoes,” the dog wiggled in his harness the moment his name passed Brock’s lips. “Bramble,” the Seppala Siberian dog looked curiously at them but the easy-going dog just sat down. “And my lead dog, Billie.” 

The Greenland dog was still looking at the rival team with keen eyes, a promise that she’d protect her team. 

“Nice dogs,” Jack said again. 

Brock was still distracted by his invitation but it felt rude to ask at that moment. “I see you’ve got dogs yourself. What are their names?” 

It was only three of them, the minimum needed for a team and all big, clearly made for pulling heavy loads and not for fast trips. “This is Old Blue,” Jack pointed toward a blue heeler laying in the snow, dozing. “Red,” he pointed to the malamute. “And little Priss.” 

Little Priss, a Chinook, looked especially dainty surrounded by the bigger dogs. She had sharp eyes, ears pricked turning this way and that as she tried to interpret tones. They weren’t in their traces and that made Brock just a little nervous, especially with an easily excitable dog like Tiptoes. 

“The indian didn’t tell me it was on owned land.” 

“They don’t believe in owned land. They come and go as they please, hunting, fishing, what have you. I don’t mind. There’s enough to go around.” 

“You’re really going to let me pan on your property?” 

“Well sure. You came all this way. It would be awful to send you away empty handed.” 

“There has to be something I can give you in return. A portion of it?” 

Jack shrugged. “I don’t have anything I need to buy except for coffee, salt, flour, sugar, and milk.” 

Brock was suspicious suddenly. “How do I know you won’t turn around and kill me once I have the gold?” 

“Sounds like a whole lotta work to me, mister. I won’t force you to pan but if you wanna go ahead. I got enough here.” Jack rattled the pan. “I got a cabin up the way if you wanna roof over your head.” 

“That sure is nice of you,” Brock said, taken aback. 

“I got hay for the dogs too.” 

He went back to his sled hitching up the dogs again. Billie seemed to calm once they were all harnessed. Jack waved as he rode away, leaving Brock with a river full of gold and deeply confused. After a long moment he unhitched the dogs who went for a drink immediately. Except Tiptoes, Tiptoes pressed against his legs, talking nonsense until Brock began to pet him. Only then did he get a drink with the other dogs. Brock got out the panning stuff, stiffening at every breeze thinking that Jack had returned. If Brock died his dogs would too. It was too far out. If the elements didn’t get them, starvation would -- assuming the wolves didn’t first. Just the thought had him holding Tiptoes close. 

He panned for hours, getting more gold than he’d ever seen in his life and he understood what the big deal was. Before he’d get a few tiny pieces but here he was getting some nuggets as well. Jack Rollins must have been insane if he was passing all this up. He didn’t seem to be dim -- maybe he was too nice for his own good? Whatever it was Brock was going to take advantage of the situation. He sat back on his heels as he finished for the day. Tiptoes nosed at him and Brock wrapped an arm around him. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna have any trouble getting you your booties.” 

Tiptoes just pressed closer. He packed up the dogs and considered going to the cabin. If he left would he be allowed back? Billie pulled anxiously, never one for staying still when harnessed. He had no idea where he was going but they followed the tributary up. It took work to maneuver through the trees, dogs in a new terrain. The snow was deep but he could see where Jack’s sled had been. They broke free of the tree line and there it stood. 

The cabin. It had a snow cap but smoke curled out of it’s chimney. It had been a long time since Brock had a roof over his head, a long while since his dogs had hay to sleep on. Assuming Jack wasn’t out to murder him, this was an invitation he couldn’t refuse. Brock unhitched the dogs who immediately investigated the hay piles and its suspicious scents. Brock wanted to poke around a bit but he didn’t want to come across rude. He was in high spirits regardless with a fortune tucked carefully in his bag. Jack was off getting the supplies mentioned, Brock assumed, and he knew the journey to Fortymile would be two days, maybe three considering his small team that seemed to be built towards pulling heavy loads and not speed. It felt strange to set up camp beside a cabin. Jack was quick to trust him -- he could rob him blind and take off. Brock wasn’t that kind of man but how did Jack know that? 

The dogs were as anxious as he was as he passed out supper and started to heat up water for them to drink. Tiptoes pressed close for a bit but then wandered a few paces away. It was a good sign, Brock thought. A cold gust of wind almost extinguished his feeble flame but he managed to block it. He was up early, the first hint of sun on the horizon. Brock packed up the sled, hitched up the dogs, and panned until dusk started to creep through the sky. He went back to his little camping area and the dogs seemed a bit more comfortable, feeding off Brock’s energy. He’d never had this kind of luck -- he understood the Gold Fever. That drive to pan and pan, and accumulate riches. But he didn’t lose his head. He couldn’t. How could Jack just give this away for free? What kind of man ignored riches? What kind of man was Jack? 

Dusk was starting to fall on the third day when he heard the sled approaching. Every dog leapt up from where they had loitering, stock still. The lead dog, Old Blue, pressed his ears back and bore his teeth with a growl. 

“Stop that, Blue.” The dog did stop but not without a whine of objection. “Sorry about that, friend.” 

“It’s alright.” 

“I ‘spose it’s time to see if they can tolerate each other,” Jack said with a smile. “I’m glad you stayed.” 

“Really?” 

“It gets lonely and these days it’s hard to find friendly folks.” Jack said, stepping off the foot boards. 

The bed of the sled was piled high with sacks of flour, salt, sugar, rice, beans and tins of coffee and powdered milk. Brock hadn’t seen so many supplies for a while -- his team wasn’t built for carrying heavy loads, they were made from speed. “D’ya mind getting the door for me?” 

“Oh.” Brock hurried to the door, opening it for him. “Should I grab something?” 

“I’d say so but I don’t think Little Priss would let you touch a damn thing,” Jack said fondly. “You can go in and warm up if you’d like.” 

It felt wrong to step inside another man’s home. Or maybe Brock had been disconnected from normal society standards too long. “Uh, sure thank you.” 

Brock took a step in the house and Tiptoes whimpered in objection, the idea of Brock being out of his sights distressing him. Brock turned and knelt down in front of him. “You’ll be okay,” he assured him. “It’s just a minute. Billie’ll look after ya.” 

Tiptoes backed off, sadness in his eyes. Every dog went through an attachment phase but Brock suspected Tiptoes’ would be especially long. He didn’t want to encourage it however. It was an unhealthy habit. He stepped inside the cabin behind Jack who had a sack of beans on one shoulder and flour on the other. Brock remembered his own heavy load -- one ton of food to pass the border into the Yukon. Three pounds of food per day. Now he kept on the lighter loads even though it meant more frequent stops. It was easier on the dogs and that came first, always. 

The cabin was an open room, a stone fireplace opposite the door had nothing but cold coals in them but being out of the elements warmed him all the same. There was a straw mattress cot covered in a bear skin on the left wall, tucked into the corner near the fire. There was a table beside the window that overlooked the yard where the hay was laid. It felt wrong to stand and wait for the warmth of the fire while Jack toiled and worked but he didn’t want to agitate the dogs and risk the others coming to his aid. Jack lit up the fireplace as soon as he was done with the skill of a man who’d done so hundreds of times. When Jack finished he huffed out a breath. 

“Can I get you some coffee, friend?” 

“If it’s not a bother,” Brock said slowly. 

He went outside and packed a pot with snow before sliding it on the rack above the fire which he revived with a few logs from the stack by the door. The cabin was wooden and insulated -- clearly had lived in the area long before the gold rush. There were two chests, one to the right of the fireplace and one beside the table. Jack gestured to the wood stump.

“Go on an’ take a seat there, friend. It’ll be a bit before it melts. Cold waves comin’ in, you feel ‘em?” 

Brock hadn’t. The Yukon was cold as was. “I ‘spose.” 

“Big snow rollin’ in, friend.” 

“So you said,” Brock looked around again. “Got yerself a nice place out here.” 

“Got tired of the hustle and bustle of the city. Than this gold business started and the town’s are all boomin’. I don’t dare go near Skagway or Dyea.” 

Brock had to agree that it was chaotic and noisy and the boomtowns weren’t any better. The sheer slew of people yelling over each other, dogs both stray and owned packing the streets, the saloon and working girls trying to entice weak moral men. He wasn’t one for working girls, never had been and never will be, but gambling was hard to avoid and drinking usually ended up there. Brock had been smart so far, avoiding the saloons religiously. Jack looked the part of a recluse, a man better off alone than with others. And that was why Brock was so confused by the invitation. 

The water melted and Jack tipped coffee grounds into a cheese cloth and poured the water into it. Freshly stepped coffee ran into the pot below it and it’s smell seemed to wrap around Brock. Coffee was a rarity -- no, a delicacy -- and Brock was eager to take his first drink. In the beginning he had carried a tin of grounds with him but he quickly learned that the weight of that tin was equal to that of four extra pieces of salted fish. Priorities won out and he ditched the coffee the way he’d ditched his tent. His team came first. 

“How long you been on the trail?” 

“‘bout four months now.” 

Jack whistled. “Long time to be pannin’ for gold. Speaking of, you find anything?” 

Brock considered lying, just in case Jack’s nice guy act had merely to gain free labor. But Brock wasn’t a liar, it wasn’t how his mother raised him. “Did better than I have anywhere else.” 

“Glad to hear it.” Jack squeezed the remaining liquid out of the cheese cloth and rested the grounds filled cloth in the empty pot. “Good thing that indian caught when he did.” 

Brock thought about Lady. “Yeah, sure was.” 

Jack poured the coffee carefully into tin mugs and sat on his own stump. There were three which was interesting considering he lived alone. “The storm’ll be comin’ in tomorrow, I think. Dogs can smell it. They were antsy to get home.” 

He knew rough weather when the dogs forgoed the fire in favor of digging a hole to hide in. Brock had toughed it through storms before, the kind that froze him to the bone and turned his fingers blue. He wasn’t eager to go experience it anymore than necessary so if this man was offering shelter how could he complain? It was getting dark so Jack and Brock went to the shed where there were a stack of hay bales. The dogs had grouped up around their sled, distrustful but not aggressive. Tiptoes broke the stalemate between them, leaping to his feet to race over to Brock, teething his hand impatiently. 

“Dog’s pretty fond of you.” 

“He is.” 

They laid out hay for Brock’s dogs, five mounds of hay to keep the dogs up off the snow. It was something Brock should have been carrying himself. Red grumbled a bit when Tiptoes came too close, trying to follow Brock inside. “Go back,” Brock said sternly. 

Tiptoes’s ears splayed and he morosely returned to the other dogs who ignored him. Brock suspected they were still adjusting to him. He was young, fresh out of puppyhood with the drive to play which his dogs didn’t possess in their maturity and experience. They wanted to pull, they wanted to run -- playing wasn’t included in that. Tiptoes would have unleashed havoc inside Jack's home, too young and excitable to be cooped up. It was a favor to Tiptoes, though Brock knew Tiptoes wouldn’t see it that way, not until he was running in circles and begging to go free. He’d done this a few times, with Billie and Breeze. Scar had no drive to be inside, born and raised in the harsh elements. Bramble had quickly learned that being indoors was suffocating and never pressed afterwards. 

“Think the weather would hold out for me to pan s’more? 

“I sure hope so,” Jack sat back. “I got some outdoor business myself. Got some logs to haul back.” 

“So they’re haul dogs?” Brock clarified. 

“Yup. Wouldn’t put a malamute on a sled meant to speed, I’ll tell you.” 

“Breeze is a malamute, we don’t have much trouble keeping speed.” 

“Maybe it’s just my Red that’s slow.” 

“They’re a strong breed,” Brock said, trying to be agreeable. “I think it comes down to the dogs.” 

“Ain’t that the truth.” 

Brock took a swallow of his coffee. He nearly groaned, it was so good. He was desperate to keep conversation so he tilted his head up and looked at the exposed roof beams. “You build this place alone?” 

“I got help from some of the indians in exchange for some dried fish and a pelt or two. Good folks, them indians. They’re different, but they’re good folks.” 

“Traded one of my dogs to the one who told me about this place. She was ‘bout to whelp, it felt like the right thing to do.” 

“They’re good to their dogs, they’re loyal. Old Blue got a little close to the indian helping me and oh did his dogs leap to protect him. I was worried they were gonna attack and kill ‘im but that indian didn’t even to say a word, just made this queer little sound and his dogs were so damn docile it was like it never happened. I think Old Blue was as shocked as I was because he just sat there, dumb.” 

Brock had heard stories of indians, of the natives that lived in the golden land. Stories varied, some proclaiming them to be savages that would slaughter you because the rush had encroached on their reservations. Others said they were kindly folks who brought good quality pelts and asked for little in return. It had come down to Brock making his own decision and he had trusted in the people. He just hoped, for Lady’s sake, he had made the right choice. Of course the indian he’d traded with was from a different tribe, Han, if Brock’s memory served him correct. 

“They weren’t Han were they?” 

“Nah, it's the Athabascan tribe. Good folks,” Jack said again with a nod. “They don’t want trouble with no one and no one wants trouble with ‘em.” 

Peace and prosperity was what a man wanted deep down. It rested in the soul, a born inclination. “That’s good to know. Not too interested in dyin’ out here.” 

“Neither are they.” 

“Say, how far is it from here to town?” 

“Circle city? Just over three hundred miles.” 

Brock nodded his head. He would need to get more supplies -- and something for his gracious host. He’d never had so much wealth, it was almost dizzying. No, it was more than dizzying, it made him wonder if this was all a fever dream. “I don’t got much supper wise so I hope you don’t mind dried fish.” 

“I’m not one to complain.” 

Dinner was quiet, two strangers trying to bridge the gap to become acquaintances. Both parties were willing. Jack had missed human contact and Brock, with all his time on the trails, had missed talking to someone who could talk back. Brock told him about his journey from Seattle up to the Yukon, touched, just a bit, by the gold fever that had seized the country. Gold was worth more than flimsy paper money due to the recession that didn’t show any signs of lifting. So Brock had left his job and journeyed out further than he had ever had for a dream. Jack listened intently, curious about his time on the trail and his rocky days of being a novice musher. 

“Wouldn't know it, seein’ you know now.” 

Color worked up his cheeks. He’d never had anyone compliment him on his mastery of the skill and it felt nice to be recognized. “Well those days we were lucky to make it fifty miles.” 

“Gotta start somewhere.”

“I ain’t seen too many three dog teams -- or a blue heeler pulling, either.” 

“Old Blue is full of surprises,” Jack said with a small smile. “Took me through White Pass when we hadda go to Skagway for a new saw blade. He always takes lead when we go that way. Little Priss don’t mind a lick either.” 

Brock didn’t swap out Billie. She was stubborn as stubborn came and would bite the heels of whichever dog was placed. It was why Brock had been so hesitant to place Tiptoes there.

“It ain’t an easy trail t’go through.” 

“That it ain’t, friend.” 

It was getting dark so Jack lit an oil lamp. They talked into the night, Brock looking out the window to assure the dogs had bedded down for the night. Scar wasn’t on his hay bed and Brock wasn’t really surprised by that. He actively repelled anything remotely comfortable. It was just who he was. 

Jack told him that he’d been born in America but in 1882 he moved up here and, with the help of local indians and an occasional passerby, he had constructed his home. He was interested in simple living, surviving off the land, off grid, like things used to be. Brock looked at the rifle mounted to the wall, well worn and clearly commonly used. 

As it got late Jack offered his bed but Brock refused. So he invited him to set up a bedroll on the floor by the fire so he could keep warm and that...well, that he couldn’t say no to. The only dog who stirred when he went to the sled was Tiptoes but he laid back down when Brock walked towards the cabin. It was a bit strange to sleep in another man’s house. It was weird sleeping in a house, much less one with a man he hardly knew. But if Jack was looking to murder him he wouldn’t have waited so long and wasted food on him. So Brock slept easy, warm and content. Jack rose at the same time as him, insisting he make them both some coffee while Brock went out to feed his dogs. The fact they hadn’t scuffled with Jack’s team was pleasing and so he gave them extra chipped beef. It would have been his meal if Jack hadn’t fed him. Tiptoes demanded to be pet and Billie walked to the front of the traces looking pointedly at him. She was always eager to go, never satisfied when there was too much sitting around. She wasn’t enjoying the panning much or the short journeys to the river. 

The sky was gray above them however, the storm Jack had been telling him about brewing. Maybe that was why Billie was so anxious. “We’ll be okay here,” Brock assured her.

She huffed in annoyance and stalked back to her hay bed. Inside Jack asked if he minded feeding his dogs, setting a pile of salted fish. Brock agreed -- it was the least thing he could do really -- and went outside. Tiptoes, thinking he was getting yet another treat bounded over while the rest of the team looked on curiously. 

“No,” Brock said firmly. Tiptoes looked at him like he had grown two heads. “Not for you.” 

Tiptoes whined. Brock didn’t budge. The husky slunk away ears laid back in sadness. Jack’s dogs watched him with suspicion and Brock knew better than to get too close, especially with food. He stood a respectful distance away and tossed them their food. There was an order to it that Brock found peculiar. Red would take on and deliver it to Little Priss and then one to Old Blue. And after they had eaten, Red would eat hers. Very peculiar indeed. Brock stood outside and noticed Tiptoes biting at the snow and ice between his toes. Brock couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. He went inside, stomach sinking because he felt just awful asking more of a man who had opened up his home. 

“Everything go alright?” He was just starting to run the coffee through. 

“Yes but…” 

Jack turned his attention looking worried. “Did something happen?” 

“No,” Brock said quickly. “Not with your dogs I just… I need to make boots for Tiptoes. His paws are bigger than Lady’s and -- ”

“I got plenty of leather, friend. And a needle and some thread.” 

Brock nodded his thanks and got busy sewing. He paused a few times, making sure the size was right and right before the sun hit its peak, had Tiptoes booted. The husky wasn’t too thrilled about it at first, walking around funny while the older dogs watched. He flopped on his side with a howl of anguish at the new sensation and Brock left him to his moping in favor of getting the sled all packed up to go mining again. Jack was going out to haul in logs. Brock panned for a while until he heard runners. He turned thinking it was Jack coming to see but it wasn’t. 

“Whoa,” he called, stepping on the claw brake. 

Brock got a bad feeling about the man immediately. His lead dog looked half dead, fur hanging, bones protruding. “This is private property, mister.” Brock said, leaving out the fact that it wasn’t his property. He hadn’t known Jack long but he knew he would tell this prospector to go on his way. “Go on your way.” 

“The savage didn’t tell me anyone else was here,” the musher’s mustache and beard had droplets of ice frozen on them. “Y’see we come a long way for this. So I’m gonna have to decline.” 

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” Brock stood up and the man stepped off the floor boards and made a move towards Brock. 

Breeze trotted up to his stand in front of Brock. She was docile, not one who would tussle for fun. But when she thought Brock was being threatened she used her size to her advantage. “You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve killed on these trails, pal. It'll be best for you to pack and go back to your home.” 

“I think it’ll be best for you to take yourself off my land.” 

Brock turned and saw the dog coming from the tree line. Jack looked intimidating half in the shadows in his beaver fur coat. There was a rifle resting his hands, a secondary deterrent. The man huffed, breath freezing the air. “More than enough gold to go around, wouldn’t you say?” 

“There may be but it’s my property and I’m not lookin’ to share with the likes of you.” 

“My dogs are starving, sir.” 

“It’s a few days trip to the next city. I’ll give you fish.” 

“If I could just -- ”

“I’ve been more than polite, friend. I’d hate to shoot you but I’d be well within my rights.” 

The musher looked at the water, at the gold shimmering. “You gimme a few ounces and you won’t see me ever again.” 

“You ain’t in a position to be making deals.” Jack got off the floor board and walked over. “Now you can follow me home and I’ll get you food for the trip for your dogs. That’s all you’ll be getting from here, sir.” 

“Fuck you and your food. Hoarding all this for yourself, selfish I’ll tell. Selfish.” 

“Doesn’t change the fact this land is mine.” 

The musher got back on the foot board, cracking his whip as he called out, “Mush.” 

It took a moment to get the sled going but they retreated. Brock knew those dogs would make it maybe sixty miles before they would collapse. They would die and without his dogs, the musher would freeze to death. It broke Brock’s heart but he couldn’t save every dog. He could only pray that the dog’s deaths were quick and painless as possible. When they vanished Brock turned to Jack. 

“I shoulda known others would find out about this,” Jack said glumly. 

“I can go if you want,” Brock said quickly. 

“No, no. I like you here.” Jack said. “But know you’ll have to chase away anyone else the indians decide to tell about the gold.” 

“I think I can do that.” 

Jack smiled. “Well I’ll get back to the house. I got some fresh rabbit for us for dinner.” 

Brock hadn’t had fresh meat in a while. Stunned, he smiled. “That’s real kind of you, Jack.” 

“It’s not a bother,” Jack said. “Remember that storm’s comin’ in.” 

“I will. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” 

“Alright,” Jack stood back up the sled. “Get on Little Priss.” 

The small dog started to pull and the rest of the team joined them, turning to go back into the woods. Brock watched them go, impressed by the ease they had weaving between trees. Maybe having a small team was the key. Perhaps it was practice. Whatever it was, Brock was impressed. He panned for about forty minutes before the thought of rabbit beckoned him to an early end. Billie was on her feet in seconds, just about quaking with excitement. 

They hadn’t stayed put this long the entire trip. He’d have to arrange a journey to town after the storm. Keep the dogs in shape and to keep them happy. It was cruel to keep running dogs sedentary. The dogs were out front when he pulled in, Red and Little Priss romping around joyously. They paused a moment and then continued on. Tiptoes saw it and called out to them in excitement. Red approached, lip crinkled over his teeth in a great smile of acceptance. Little Priss was waiting in a bow for their new playmate. Scar was grumbling at Red for being too close to their sled. Brock freed Tiptoes first and watched him bounce around, teething the other dogs like they were puppies again. The other dogs clearly considered themselves too mature for such juvenile practice and laid down, looking on to ensure the play followed all the rules. Old Blue could have cared less about the other dogs, looking out at the woods. The sun was on it’s way down in the sky as Brock knocked on the cabin door. 

It was strange that he felt so comfortable with this man he’d met only days ago. But something about Jack was welcoming and warm. It felt like he’d been with him weeks, not days. “That was some unpleasant business earlier,” Jack said in lieu of a greeting. “I’m sorry you had to deal with all that.” 

“I just… I wasn’t sure if you’d have wanted him here. I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do.” 

“Don’t apologize. I’ve always believed how a man treats his animals reflects the way he treats those around him. And those were some sorry dogs if I’ve ever seen one.” 

Brock frowned. “They won’t last long.” 

“And neither will he, god willing.” 

“God willing,” Brock agreed bitterly. 

Jack was skinning the rabbit, separating fur and skin from muscle. There was a pile of organs sitting on a tin plate. “Dogs like ‘em,” Jack said. 

He had three rabbits all together, two already skinned and gutted and their pelts hanging to cure. Brock offered assistance but Jack refused. “I’ve been out here a while but I still know how to treat a guest.” 

Brock instead entertained him with tales from the trail and the time he got so caught up getting food for the dogs that he forgot to get food for himself so he had half starved. Or the time that Billie had saved them from crashing through the ice by flopping down. Brock spent two hours trying to get her up but she wouldn’t move. Brock had been certain that she was hurt when another sled came by and crashed through the ice. Brock had dash over, ripping his knife from his pocket to cut the traces so the dogs didn’t get dragged down with the sled. The musher held the edge of the hole and with considerable effort Brock was able to pull him out. They had spent two days around the fire while the man volleyed from being grateful to mourning the loss of his sled and five ounces he had packed in his bags. His lead dog was a bit of brute too, stalking between the dogs, bristling at every chance he got. Brock had sat with him until he was sure the man wouldn’t succumb to hypothermia and then they started a very slow journey into the town where Brock left him and the dogs. It was after that instance that he knew Billie was as good as lead dogs got. 

Jack whistled, impressed. “Takes a special kinda dog to know bad ice by sight. Wouldn’t trade her for a million dollars.” 

“I don’t want to trade any of my dogs,” Brock said.

“Got helluva team. A pack, them dogs are. A family.” 

A family. Brock liked that. He and his dogs, a family. 

Brock divided out the organs with supper and the dogs ate the fresh meat eagerly. Red didn’t pass out the organs, she devoured them and Brock was left short handed. Fearing he’d made a mistake he went to the door. Jack didn’t turn away from the fire where the rabbits sat, roasting. “Red got ‘em all, did she?” 

“I’m sorry, usually -- ”

“I think she considers it her payment for passing out the food. The other dogs won’t kick up a fuss.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brock said. 

“Don’t be. I’m not upset. If anyone should be apologizing it’s Red.” 

Brock sat on the stump and asked about his journey here and how long it’d taken with three dogs. “I had eight, actually. I passed them off to young mushers, good ones that I knew would treat ‘em right. Dogs that got a heart to run and keepin’ ‘em here woulda broke their spirit. But Little Priss, Red and Old Blue were my first. Couldn’t do it. Blue is getting on in years but I know he ain’t gonna stop still he drops in his traces.” 

Brock knew what he was talking about. About the spirit that existed in a sled dog, about the heart that lived to roam, the body built to run and run until they dropped where they stood. It was what separated them from the domesticated breeds -- they had those wild urges well in place. It was special. “He’s a good dog.” 

“He’s a good dog,” Jack agreed with a smile. “They’re all good dogs ain’t they?” 

“Can’t argue with that.” Brock said, “Not that I’d want to.” 

Dinner was good. It was the best thing Brock had eaten for months. There was plenty and Jack invited him to fill himself up. They each ate a rabbit and half and Brock melted down snow to wash up the dishes while Jack stretched out the skin. “I usually take a bath tonight -- would you like one?” 

A bath? It sounded heavenly. It had been a while since he last ventured into a bath house where working girls offered to ‘wash you’. Brock wasn’t interested in that. It was yet another kindness Jack was offering. “If it’s no bother I certainly won’t refuse.” 

“Not a bother at all, long as you mind filling it being a little slow going.” 

And it was. Pot after pot splashed into a metal tub kept in the shed. But, eventually, the tub was full and steaming. Jack gave him a fresh bar of soap and washing cloth. “I’ll keep on these pelts,” he said. “But you need anything, let me know.” 

“Will do.” 

It was pleasant. His times in bath houses had erased any bashfulness. He washed everywhere he could reach which left his back. “D’ya mind gettin’ my back?” 

“‘Course not, Brock.” 

Brock liked that he was finally using his name rather than friend. It was nudging their friendliness closer to friends. He felt a bit guilty, like he was befriending Jack for access to the gold -- which he certainly wasn’t. Still he feared Jack thinking so. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt the man who had been so kind, so giving to him. The sensation of the soapy fabric on his skin felt good. It felt really good. It felt...too good. He had no idea what Jack would think if he saw his erection. He’d cast him out, take every cent he’d earned -- and with reason. He tried to shield it the best he could with soap scum on the surface of the bath water. Without disturbing the water too much he tried to shield himself with his hands. 

“How’s that?” 

“Good, thank you.” Jack stood up, holding out the wash cloth. 

Brock’s pulse bounded as he lifted his arm to take it. Jack glanced down and he saw, Brock knew he saw and then he headed back towards the pelts as though it hadn’t happened. Maybe he was too polite, maybe he thought it was a side effect of being on the trail for so long and not seeing enough working girls. As long as he didn’t know it was because of him, Brock would be fine. 

But it was because of him. Jack wasn’t a bad looking man. Quite the contrary, he was a very good looking man. A man well versed in living off the land, self sufficient. When he shed his heavy beaver fur coat his figure was that of sharp lines and toned muscles that had never seen famine. His eyes were bright with life, the same color as the firs growing tall and wild in the forest just outside his home. A forest where no beast would travel because a man such as Jack lived there. Brock finished his bath, determined to get back into his clothes as fast as possible to preserve this new friendship, one he valued despite their brief time together. 

Jack’s bath was much less eventful, Brock keeping a polite distance, eyeing the pelts hung by the table instead of Jack, running his fingers through the fur and wondering if his hair was that soft. It was a line of thinking that he really shouldn’t have been entertaining but he was a man. He had deep primal needs embedded into his very being. It wasn’t normal, it wasn’t strange and unwelcome, but it was there. There were urges he didn’t have a name for much less a moral grasp on. But thinking about that didn’t help distract him much. Jack asked for help with his back and a surge of excitement hit him like a wall. He wanted to peek over his shoulder, he wanted to know if Jack was looking at him from the bath, if he had those same strange thoughts, yearning to feel the rough skin of a man rather than the soft supple skin of a woman. 

After the bath Jack was back to stretching the pelts. 

“Can’t say I ever under the process,” Brock said, trying to test their climate. 

Jack looked at him with a smile. “I’ll gladly show you, if you’re interested.” 

“Might be handy to have a few pelts on hand.” 

“I’ll say.” 

Jack explained that it had to be at room temperature and clammy to the skin before you’d start to pull it from all sides to form the leather beneath it. Brock listened, rapt. 

Jack had his share of epic stories. He’d survived a famine, the kind that had both him and his dogs eating leather to try and fill their stomach. He’d hunted for two days and two nights before coming upon a moose and he and his team feasted for three days before the meat froze and Jack packed up what he could. The famine broke just before the meat ran out, fate if Jack had ever seen in. He had stories about salmon runs and standing in the trees watching bears, fat and slow gorge themselves on fish. It was how he got his bear pelt, he explained, pointing at the cot where it lay, a reminder of that memory. He talked about his journey through White Pass where so many dogs, men and horses had perished. He had intentionally overpacked, looking for a slow steady trip instead of trying to face it head on like many did. 

“It was either smart or dumb luck,” Jack said, leaning over the table. “And I couldn’t’a done without Old Blue. Won’t dare do it again without him.” 

Brock just smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

The storm hit that night, gusts rattled the door and threatened their fire. Jack had insisted he lay some pelts beneath the bed roll to keep him up off the floor and it was hard to refuse. It made a huge difference, sleeping fitfully and warmly despite the storm billowing around them. In the morning snow was piled hill high and it was a battle to get out the door to feed the dogs. The air was sharp, cutting through his moosehide coat. At first glance there were no dogs to be seen. But to the trained eye he could see the breathing holes each dog had left when they buried themselves in little dens to trap their warmth. The wind was whipping and ice slashed at his cheeks as he trudged through. He waited a few minutes but no dog was interested in breaking out of their burrows. They were well fed dogs and missing one feeding wouldn’t cause them harm although Brock was a little worried about it. 

His dogs made their needs known and had they truly needed food they would have broken to the surface. His toil had been for naught as he trudged back in. 

“I should’a told you they wouldn’t take it -- mine wouldn’t. Smart, these dogs, knows the worst of it is yet to come.” 

It worried Brock a bit. Going without breakfast was one thing, going without dinner… 

“They’ll be fine, Brock.” Jack turned away from the coffee he was filtering. “Those dogs out there are smart as a whip. If they need it, we’ll hear it, trust me on that. My dogs buried themselves for three days and, even with the storm making it a damn near whiteout, Red dug out and howled something awful until I gave her some fish. Gotta trust ‘em like you do on the trail.” 

Brock nodded with a deep breath. “Thanks of lettin’ us stay here. If this had hit me…” Brock had a feeling he wouldn’t have fared well, if at all. “Well, I dunno what would’a happened to me, much less my dogs.” 

“I’d say your dogs would be just fine. You on the other hand… Don’t wanna even think about it.” 

Brock offered a smile, thin with realization of how close he had been towards his demise. Had Jack not offered -- had he not accepted… This was life on the trail though, Brock was beginning to understand mother nature’s true power, the fact she held this land in a tight grip and no one could predict when she would release her rage onto them, making a treacherous land into an icy grave for those who couldn’t outsmart her. 

Jack distracted him with more tales about reaching here. About the indians who had tamed wolves that behaved like dogs. And how they’d taught him to make a better snare. He had fondly reached towards a wolf and admitted the smart dogs would still get to them. Jack said their villages were filled with wolfdogs. He speculated that only they could properly tame them, that their connection to the earth and its creatures was far superior to that of white men. Brock admitted his only interaction with indians was with a squaw holding a bundle of pelts, who had directed him to Kele. Jack seemed friendly with them, or at least a mutual respect from very different people. 

“You speak their language?” 

“No, they speak mine. They learn when trading.” 

Brock never thought he’d be curious about indians. Not until he began to notice how happy the dogs were trotting at their heels while their masters sold furs and moccasins. It was that and the swelling of Lady that had pushed him into doing something he never thought he would. He’d watched and waited -- he had to be certain he wasn’t going to subject Lady to a life of misery. It wasn’t that he doubted his choice, he would have worried whether it was a white man or an indian.

It grew dark and they had to light up the oil lamp to continue their conversation. The light cast a pleasing light on Jack, showing a sharp jawline beneath the beard. Brock had never grown a beard before he hit the trails. Typically he found them slovenly, on his face at least, but it was needed to buffer the windburn. Jack, however, looked good with a beard. He was so taken by admiring his face that he realized he was quiet on his end. His cheeks flushed as he feebly asked him to repeat himself. Jack didn’t seem to mind, asking him what had attracted him to the Yukon -- besides gold, he added. 

“The adventure of it all,” Brock said honestly. “To see if I could break it or make it.” 

“How do you feel you’re doing?” 

“I’ve gone over 15,000 miles with the same team. And we’re still kickin’ so I’d say we’ve done alright for ourselves.” 

Jack whistled. “I’d sure say so. You got a good head on your shoulders, you’re not blinded by greed like the rest’a them.”

“After this storm blows over,” Brock began a twinge of worry settling in his gut. 

“You’re welcome to stay as long as that gold holds out. If you leave other’s’ll come and they won’t be as friendly and agreeable as you. You’d be doing me a service, Brock.” 

And how could Brock refuse after that? 

** ** ** ** 

Brock checked the bed, double checked, and then for good measures, checked again. It had taken Jack’s team three days to go and come back and Brock thought he could cut it to two days, maybe even a day and half if the team really drove which he suspected they might after being cooped up in their burrows. But Brock had to take into account the fresh snow and that effect on them. Tiptoes had adjusted to his booties and teethed Brock’s hand excitedly as he connected him to the traces. He was turning into a fine swing dog and Breeze had been doing well as a wheel dog. Brock wasn’t looking to mix up places unless one dog grew unhappy with their current place. 

Brock waved at Jack who was seeing him off on his journey to town to pick up supplies, and, unbeknownst to Jack, items to thank Jack for his unusual hospitality towards him, once a stranger. He’d hardly stepped on the foot boards when the dogs took off, bounding through the snow, raising a ruckus of excitement as they ran for the first time in days. They covered more ground than expected and the dogs had tuckered themselves out. Not run down but rather all their energy had been expended and they would sleep peacefully. They each got fish and once the fire was going they crowded around, like old times. TipToe rested in the snow beside him but he didn’t wedge against his body. He was adjusting and that was good. He scratched him behind his ear and he looked up at Brock, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, the reflection of the fire lighting up his blue eyes. 

They all slept well, old muscle memory kicking in. Brock rose with the sun, as did the dogs, and not much longer afterwards they were off. It wasn’t yet afternoon when they pulled into Fortymile city. It was everything Jack had warned, bustling, the streets packed with sleds and men and dogs. They wailed here and then, determined to be heard over the cacophony. TipToes, so easily excitable tugged in his traces a bit, lending his own voice into the noise, joining the conversation of strangers. Billie looked annoyed and Brock didn’t blame her in the least. The buildings that had been erected were new and weak. Built quickly and cheaply, they were little more than sheds stocked with goods. The sheer size overtook him. He hadn’t seen so much activity since he was in Dyea. There was an ACC and the North American Transport and as he traveled further, he saw not one, not two, but ten saloons each boasting temptations made for men: liquor, gambling and women. There was a billiards room, two restaurants, a theater, an opera house, and even a watchmaker. 

He stopped his gawking and got busy. He’d never had so much money to spend. It was hard not to go too far. He knew the dogs would guard the sled, so Brock didn’t need to worry about that. He bought staples first, things he could bring back to the cabin and contribute to the food. Beans, rice, coffee, tins of butter, two loaves of quick bread, corned beef and crackers. He also got more fish for the dogs along with a set of antlers he’d cut up and divvy between all eight dogs. 

He paid in gold and saw the man at the counter eyeing the pouch which hung full and fat. 

“Found yourself a spot, aye?”

“Nah just sold off some good dogs,” Brock lied.

A gangly teen drowning in his fur jacket with a beaver fur cap loaded up the bed and Brock wandered the length of the boomtown. He stopped outside the watchmaker before climbing the steps and going in.

** ** ** **

Jack frowned a bit when Brock unloaded his purchases. The dogs were comfortable enough with Jack to allow him near the sled. “Are ya… Are ya headin’ off soon, then?” 

He sounded disappointed and Brock quickly corrected him, “Nah, just thought that since I’m here and you’ve been accommodatin’ and all, that I oughta contribute a bit. Least I can do seein’ what you’ve done for me. I got you a few things. And the dogs too of course.” 

Jack looked like he wanted to object but he didn’t -- maybe he was getting to know Brock better. Together they hefted everything inside and when Jack pulled back the mink pelts Brock was hoping to sew into a hat for Jack and him, he laid eyes on the Type 99. “Was told they’re rifles you can trust. You can’t have too many guns after, not in the wilderness. I got a box of ammo for you too.” 

Jack seemed overwhelmed opening and closing his mouth a few times. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s given a gift. Thank you Brock, means more than I can say.” 

Warmth settled in Brock’s chest, a feeling of satisfaction, of knowing that he did something good, something right. “I still got a few things.” 

Jack was ecstatic about the jam -- blackberry -- and the bread. The tins of butter took him by surprise as did the dried milk. He pulled out the antlers and Jack grinned, his dogs enjoying them as much as Brock’s did. Jack took them to the chopping block and broke them into pieces. Red passed out their share and Brock’s team accepted them from Jack’s hand, warming up to him more and more with each passing day. 

Brock shook off his thanks in favor of presenting the watch. It was a Waltham pocket watch that was gold with a gold chain, a dependable watch that afforded its holder the highest of dignity and respect. 

“I can’t accept that Brock.” 

“Then we’ll have to toss it then.” 

“Brock,” he began with a small frown. “You’re giving me too much. What am I giving you in return?” 

Brock gawked at him, struck dumb for a minute. “You’ve been letting me pan in your river for just about a week now. I’ve made almost two hundred dollars. A thirty dollar watch is the very least I can do.” 

Jack still frowned. “Promise me you’ll stay then. Keep pannin’ until it’s gone.” 

This man made no sense. He was hemorrhaging money for the sake of what? Company? A skewed idea of obligation? Politeness? 

“If you’ll have me, I’ll stay however long you tolerate me.” 

Jack finally smiled, taking the chain. “This’ll be handier than relying on the sun.” 

“That’s its purpose.” Brock agreed. 

“How about we have butter and jam sandwiches?” Jack asked, looking excited at the change of meal options. 

“That sounds like a damn good idea if I’ve ever heard one.”

** ** ** **

They settled into a routine, Brock and Jack. They rose together, Jack making coffee while Brock fed the dogs. After breakfast Jack would share what he’d been doing that day which was usually, fetching firewood or hunting. He began a tradition of coming to the river around noon time with sandwiches and once the bread was gone, corned beef and crackers. They’d talk about nothing, the dogs wandering around with each other, finally over their stalemate of silence and curious about one another. TipToe was already well acquainted with Red and Little Priss so he was the tour guide, jumping from his teammate to his new friends with yips of excitement. Old Blue seemed to get on well with Scar. Blue wasn’t nearly as mean but they shared the commonality of age. Of dogs that had been running when their team members were deaf and blind. It was somber connection, a knowledge that their time was running down and each trip they had were counting down to their very last time in their traces. 

Scar would last longer. He was too mean for death to take him easy. Old Blue had lived a long life, one with luxuries gifted to him by man -- being pet, a full belly, warm fires -- and that made him soft. But that was the way of their world. Dogs rose, dogs fell. 

Sometimes Brock and Jack got talking so long Brock put aside panning just to listen to Jack talk about his life before here, how he was a shoe salesman and how stifling it had been to live in a city. Too loud, too fast, too chaotic. So when his mother passed he took his inheritance and bought ten acres in the remote Yukon. 

“It can be a pain in the warm season. The ice breaks up and getting into town is impossible. So I stock up beforehand.” 

Brock wondered if he’d be here in the warm months. He’d never seen so much gold even though it took time to sift it out. There was enough here that Brock would be there for a long time. Brock didn’t mind it at all. No only for the gold, but for the company. It was the best company he’d had in a long time. Maybe even ever. 

** ** ** **

The days were lazy, weeks peppered with trips into town to appease the dogs and build up the little stockpile Jack had mentioned. Brock hadn’t formally said he was staying but Jack had looked up from his coffee and told him that they should get extra for the warm months. So Brock did. He drove the team into Fortymile, packed up the sled and went back. Brock began to get an itching to go on a longer journey, to get back to battling the elements and giving the dogs the challenge they were seeking. So he planned a journey to Circle City. It would just add a day and a half extra but that increased the trip to almost ten days. That was adequate for Brock and the dogs. Jack seemed worried however, brows knitting together as Brock packed his bed roll. The floor looked bare without it. 

“I’ll be back,” He assured him. “The dogs -- ”

“I know,” Jack said. “Just be safe. Don’t push it too hard. Watch the ice.” 

“With Billie at the lead she won’t step a foot on it.” 

Jack nodded, a bit reassured. “Don’t think you need to get me a gift either.” 

“I’m my own man, Mr. Rollins. I will buy you as many gifts as I please.” 

Jack smiled. “I suppose you are.” 

“You suppose correct. I’ll see you in ten days.” 

“If you’re gone more than eleven know I’m comin’ after you.” 

Brock had never had someone like this. Someone who kept track of where he went and worried. He’d come to Yukon alone and he had built up his family with man’s best friend. Including fellow men… It was strange. Maybe he’d been in the wild too long, related too much with the trail than he did with other humans. Dogs were easy, dependable, loyal. Man was more complicated. And despite how unsure he was with Jack’s intentions, with what Jack was beginning to mean to him, he couldn’t decide either way on where he stood. So he focused on the one thing he understood -- mushing. 

The dogs chattered amongst themselves, enlivened. The wind was sharp on his face and it felt nice. They covered an impressive hundred and ten miles before Brock called, “whoa” and stepped on the claw break. The dogs seemed disappointed to stop. These weren’t dogs meant to sit stagnant and unwelcome thoughts crept in his mind. If he stayed with Jack he couldn’t keep his dogs. 

Running dog’s spirits were that of wind. Meant to flow freely, not be confined by man. But Brock didn’t want to think about that. He unhitched them and TipToes, too used to having dogs to play with, tried his luck with Billie who chased him off with her fangs. TipToe looked utterly crushed so Brock set up the fire, fed them and then romped him with him. He teethed his sleeve as he jumped on him. His full weight sent Brock sitting back in the snow while TipToes got out some energy. He grew bored eventually -- a human playmate wasn’t nearly as fun. 

They rose and fell with the sun during the journey. It was long, the kind of trip Brock was well versed in. Circle City. The population had fallen since word of the gold in the Yukon. Its supplies would be cheaper and Brock hadn’t ever been to Alaska. Temperature wise there wasn’t much of a difference but driving into town was a shock. He’d gotten used to the bustling of boomtowns. Only a mail sled was there, the musher loading sacks of letters. Brock brought the dogs to stop and stepped off. As expected the prices were lower than he’d seen on the journey and the shopkeeper loaded the supplies himself, pausing to admire the dogs. “Real nice dogs, mister.” 

“Thank you.” 

Brock had gotten another set of antlers at fifteen cents per antler. Thirty cents was worth the dog’s happiness. He’d always been told that spoiling dogs made them lazy. Brock thought the opposite. It gave them incentive to work, something they had been born and bred to do. 

The journey back was just as long as the journey there. But there was that nagging in the back of his mind. That knowledge that this… The knowledge that things were quickly turning into something deeper. Something that would pain them both when Brock walked away. And he would walk away. He just hoped Jack wouldn’t ask him to stay. He suspected he knew, that he understood why these trips were so important. Because Brock, like his dogs, wasn't interested in settling, in staying put somewhere for too long. 

Jack was homesteader, a man meant to settle down. Brock was an adventurer first and prospector second. That itch under his skin, his yearning to go was already creeping. He would have to leave the panning before too long and with it, Jack. And it hurt to think about, so he put it from his mind, focusing on the trail and the exhilaration it gave him. 

** ** ** **

The warm months came, ice broke up and with it that did their connection to the city. The dogs started to disappear during the day, retreating to the forest to answer the call to run. They always returned for feeding -- except TipToes who would lope back in at dusk and whine for food. He was young, inexperienced, and the most at risk for a predator be it his wild cousins or a hungry lynx or bears. He tried in vain to keep TipToes on the property but he was slippery as water, racing after the other dogs into the trees where he remained until damn near dark. It felt cruel and Brock hated it, but it was TipToes life on the line, so he tied him up. Red didn’t like it however. Four times she chewed through the leather cord attached to the stake and when they reinforced it, Red and Little Priss both dug the stake from the ground. Brock had no idea what to do and Jack had shook his head, sipped his coffee and said, “Them dogs’ll keep him safe.” 

Brock didn’t have any say in the matter -- he couldn’t keep him bound because the Brock’s laws didn’t apply when they weren’t haltered to the traces. They made their own rules and enforced it. Brock was a helpless onlooker. As the thaw turned to pleasantly warm weather Brock’s fears of TipToes demise faded. The dogs still left but they always returned and that was enough for him. He still panned and Scar trailed along behind him. Loyal but distant, he watched over Brock as he sifted for gold. His mind wandered as his hand worked, a task done many times now. When the ice came back, Brock would leave. He had to. His heart was at war with itself. The urge to stay and be with Jack, to really be with him, to address the wall between them with a fierce kiss to see if it was rewarded or punished. Or to leave as is, a quiet yearning in both of them. 

They had bathed in front of each other multiple times, back washing became a normal event that didn’t need to be voiced. And the stiffening of their cocks was no longer hidden but neither was it addressed. It was a conflict, an internal war of both morals, of confusion, and of a love he’d never expected to have. It was just that, a love. A strange love that Brock wasn’t certain men were meant to share but it existed and they both knew it. Even though they couldn’t voice it, it was there. And that’s why Brock knew Jack would ask him to stay. For love, for each other, for that happiness they shared. But Brock’s happiness was also in the trails they ran. The electrified feeling of danger, of anything happening at any point. It wasn’t a feeling one got on a homestead where days were scheduled and safe. There was no thrill in that for Brock. It's why he’d journeyed this far. For adventure and for gold. But not for love. No, that had found him regardless, an unexpected conflict -- and one of the hardest he’d yet to face. 

The days started to get shorter, the skies darkening earlier and earlier. Frost came and went and soon a thin blanket of snow rested on the ground. The dogs stopped their summer wandering, hanging around for their first trip of the season. It would be a slow one, dogs getting back into rhythm and in shape after the summer season. When the first real snowfall hit they both knew the time was coming. Jack was washing his back when he said, “You don’t gotta go, Brock. I got more than enough room for one more. I’ll build you a bed -- a proper one. You can stay. Lots’a gold.” 

Brock swallowed thickly, erection flagging. “Jack,” he began. 

“Build some kennels for the dogs -- I been meaning to do that.” 

“Jack.” 

“A log cabin, what’d’ya think about that?” 

“I can’t stay Jack. You know that.” 

The washcloth froze and he heard Jack draw in a breath. “Why’d you stay all this time then?” he asked, voice hurt. “Because of the gold?” 

“I stayed because of you, Jack. I wish I could stay longer. I do. But I… I can’t settle down like you. I need to go, I need to be free.” 

The washcloth started up again and Brock didn’t look at Jack. He couldn’t, not with tears running down his cheeks. It hurt to leave, it really did. But he had to, for the sake of Jack and for himself. 

“I’ll miss you, Brock.” 

“And I’m going to miss you Jack. So much.” 

Jack helped him load his sled. It had been a very quiet few days, both heart heavy and somber. Brock shifted his footing and then hugged Jack. He smelled of woodsmoke and coffee and a part of Brock was left there with Jack. A portion of his heart with his first love. His first real love, the kind of love that Brock wouldn’t ever heal from. Brock’s tears disappeared in his beard as he waved and stepped out the foot boards. It was a mercy that he didn’t have to call mush, the dogs surging forward on their own. Brock wondered if TipToes knew that he was leaving his new friends behind, that Scar knew he was leaving his confidant forever. Brock had no idea where he was going, but heading back down to Dyea seemed like a good idea. It would be a long trip, one that would be a good training for all of them. 

** ** ** **

For two long months Jack plagued Brock but by the third he was a pleasant memory. 

The day came when Scar lost his footing and fell. And when he fell, he couldn’t get back up. He’d try, getting his front paws up, trying to drag his back legs with him, only to collapse again. Breeze whimpered trying to help with her nose. Brock’s breath caught and he knew what’d have to do. He got off the sled carefully taking him off the traces. With his help Scar got back to his feet and approached the sled. He made it a few more feet before he collapsed again. Brock’s vision blurred with tears as he walked back to the sled. He grabbed four fish and his Type 99. He hand fed Scar who looked at him with tired brown eyes. 

“You did me proud, boy.” Brock said, tears freezing on his cheeks. “You did me so proud.”

When the fish was gone Scar licked his palm -- something he’d never done. Brock stood up, took a step back, wiping his tears and took the shot. It cracked out across the frozen land. Brock wiped away his tears, well aware he’d expected this. It didn’t make it any easier. He wished he had someone to turn to, especially when he knew that he couldn’t bring Scar’s body back with him. It felt wrong to walk away, to leave him there, a red seeping across the snow. 

Brock just wanted to get away as soon as possible, run from the memory, run from the crack in his heart. But he needed to rearrange the dogs. He put Bramble in Scar’s spot and moved Billie to her spot. It would do until he got into town and found a new wheel dog. The idea of replacing Scar so quickly killed him but four dogs weren’t meant to pull a load such as his. Brock felt guilty at the relief he felt when Scar’s body was out of sight. He hadn’t gone too much further when he ran into an indian with a toboggan and a team of dogs. 

There was a brief moment of fear -- these weren’t the same indians he’d traded Lady for or the ones that had helped Jack. How did he know these weren’t the scalping brutes he heard about. “Excuse me?” 

The indian was dressed for the elements, jacket and leggings. His toboggan was full of various pelts and leather. He gave the dogs a command in a language Brock did not know and stopped. Brock had no idea how to communicate with him so he tried to talk slowly. “I...need...dog.” 

“I speak your tongue.” 

“Oh.” Brock said, embarrassed. “I need a dog. A strong dog.”

“All our dogs are strong.” The indian said, looking over his team. “I'll show you to the village.” 

Never in his life did he think he’d step foot into an indian camp. There was a significant amount of fear in him as he entered. It was busy, ridge pole lodges erected everywhere. Children ran and shouted after each other, squaws tended fire, stretched leather and hauled wood for the fire. The indian they’d followed turned and left without another word leaving Brock stricken and terrified. What if they thought he was there to cause trouble? He couldn’t outrun an arrow. He stood there until a squaw took notice. 

“Why are you here?” she looked more curious that upset, intricate beading on her clothing. 

“I need a dog.” 

“Ah, come.” 

Two young children darted to his sled but they only seemed interested in the dogs. Without Scar he didn’t have to worry about them getting bitten -- so long as they didn’t try to steal from the sled. He followed her deeper into the village, drawing the attention of others, wondering why a white man had entered their camp. Typically they went to them, not visa versa. The squaw stopped in front of a lodge whistled, loud and piercing. Dogs seemed to climb from under the woodwork, all breeds, all sizes. It was a bit overwhelming to have to choose -- but he didn’t get too. The squaw took a dog that Brock immediately knew had wolf blood in it. He was wary, Jack’s words coming back to him. 

“A good dog,” she said. 

Brock didn’t doubt that -- all dogs were good dogs -- but he wasn’t certain he would be a good owner for a partially wild dog. He could see a husky hanging by the fire where a squaw stirring something in the pot that smelled meaty and rich. “What about that dog?” 

“This dog,” she said firmly. “A good dog.” 

Brock wasn’t about to kick up a fuss and test his luck with a tribe that may or may not have been accepting of white men. “Okay,” he relented, heart sinking. “He can pull?” 

“Pulls heavy loads,” she said, pleased. “A strong dog.” 

Brock wanted to ask if he could pull with a team but a man had emerged from a lodge a bit down the way and Brock wasn’t sure he’d be as accommodating. The kids were kneeling down, TipToes washing their face with excited kisses. A dog who preened at all attention, TipToes was. He gave her a pinch of gold and she nodded at him, and then left. The wolf dog looked at him, ears pricked, eyes bright and intelligent. Brock fit the harness on him, a bit worried it wouldn’t fit. But it did. Maybe he was meant to be with this dog after all. Billie glared at him for adding a new dog to her team and all Brock could do was apologize. He worried about her punishing him, he was larger than her and he had wild blood. Bred to hunt and kill. Billie was put back as lead, Bramble back as swing, and the wolfdog in wheel. 

The dog, who’s name hadn’t been shared, didn’t know English commands but he knew to start running when the others did. Brock was taken aback by how seamless it was, the wolfdog running like he’d run with this team a thousand times over. The squaw had been honest when she assured him the dog could pull. He tried to put a finger on what he was mixed with -- it could have been siberian husky, he had the body of one and the black and white colorings, his tail didn’t curl like alaskan huskies did and the dog had the face of a wolf. And the eyes. Those golden eyes every musher hoped they wouldn’t see once night fell. Brock had been lucky not to run into one -- just an occasional coyote that seemed terrified to even be seen. Brock wished Jack was here, he often did, just to hear what he thought of this dog. And to mourn the loss of Scar with him. 

Brock shook off the thought and, with dusk creeping around him, came to a stop. He fed the dogs, the new one watching him warily. Brock had yet to pet him, too busy putting distance between him and the camp, should they be upset with him for encroaching in their camp. They were only a few days from Dyea and that was a good time to spend bonding. TipToes was just as curious as Brock, gobbling down his fish and approaching the new dog. The team was keeping their distance: they knew a wild dog when they saw it and that fear, that ingrained knowledge that all domesticated dogs had, told them that this dog could be friend or foe and no dog wanted to find out. So the youngest, the less experienced, took the risk no one else dared to. 

The wolf dog sprang to his feet and TipToes paused a moment, before flattening his body and creeping forward with a whine, a beg to play, a beg not to be taught the lesson the rest of the team had with snarls and teeth. The wolf dog stood there, watching, deciding. Then he lowered down into a bow. Brock released a breath and dogs played like old friends. It had been a long time since TipToes had that. Not since Jack. Brock sat in front of the fire watching his dogs and the fire. He was a man who had sought solidarity and yet, when the sun vanished behind blue mountains, Brock wished he had someone at his side. No, not someone. Jack. 

Chances were he’d move on already. The indian still sending prospectors to Jack’s property in exchange for goods. And Jack was a kind man, he’d allow it. Maybe they would bathe each other and share the private love that Brock had experienced. It made him a bit angry in a way, angry that Jack would possibly do such a thing. But then he realized he was foolish for letting speculations get the best of him. The fact was, Brock had left and Jack was free to love whoever he wished. At the end of the day he had his dogs -- and wolf dog. A family. That was enough. It had to be. He chose this.

Brock decided on his name the next day. He watched the way he pulled, the way he hefted a load, bearing onto their next destination. Bear. It was ironic, a wolf being named after another fearsome predator. But it fit and so it stayed. With each stop Bear got more friendly with the dogs. He was nice to Billie, respectful and polite. He didn’t flinch when she snapped her teeth by his face when he initially approached. Male dogs seemed to be ingrained within them that bitches weren’t meant to be fought. Billie seemed to respect his lack of fear and he was good in the traces so she had no reason to toil with him. Breeze was herself, unmoving and unaffected now that she’d run with him. Bramble even more so. TipToes had been a fan from the very start so all was well among the pack. So all was well among them.

** ** ** **

They pulled into Dyea for restock. He was getting his gold weighed when he heard a commotion outside. He leaned out and saw it was TipToes trying to break free. Brock was instantly concerned. Was this mad dog? 

He ran outside, dunking around a few men and then stopped dead. The dog barking back was Red. He could see a Chinook that looked an awful lot like Little Priss and a white Samoyed who looked overwhelmed by the racket. It was Red, he was certain of that. Brock ran in to grab his gold and jogged up the road a bit. The need to see Jack, to touch him and smell woodsmoke on his coat was all consuming. He wanted to tell Jack about the last three months where he had lost a member of his family -- and gained one. He wanted to know if Jack still loved him. Because if he did, if he asked him if he would stay, Brock was going to say yes. 

Seeing him here, that was fate. Jack had beat him here and that seemed impossible but here he was -- here they were. He stood by the sled, kneeling down to pet Red. “Hey there, it ain’t too polite to get near another man’s sled.” 

Brock stood, stunned. It wasn’t Jack. The man had a great bushy blonde beard. “I… I’m sorry I thought you were… Where did you get these dogs?” 

“Which one? Got the malamute from an indian. Go this one playin’ cards. Always had Digger.” 

Brock’s stomach plummeted. “The red one from an indian?” he clarified. 

“That’s what I said, mister. What’s the interest? You want her? I’ll trade you that husky there.” 

“No…” Brock’s mind went to the worst. What if something had happened to Jack? What he was injured or dead, killed by an indian who stole his dogs afterwards. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll sell her for some gold too,” the guy said, eyeing the saloon. 

Brock couldn’t say no to that. Before long the sled was packed up and Red would run along with the sled. He was going back to Jack, he had to know he was safe. He didn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t. 

Red was distrustful of Bear, bristling and stalking around him, lips wrinkled to expose teeth. Bear just watched her and his lack of rise eventually soothed her into playing with TipToes -- play that Bear was forbidden from, Red snapping at him if he dared get too close so he retired to laying among the others, watching on. Brock was sick with worry, hardly able to eat. 

They journeyed hundreds of miles, Brock pushing the dogs harder than ever had. Not too hard, but to their limit. He couldn't help but think the worst, his body pierced with feathered arrows. Tomahawks to the skull. A gunshot from a prospector? A knife on his back from someone he allowed to pan? He thought about it while he fed the dogs, while he rode the sled, while he sat by the fire and looked at Red. He loved Red, he wouldn’t have just sold her to some indians. It didn’t make sense. 

When he finally arrived, Jack was at the river, Little Priss getting to her feet with a bark. Jack straightened up, turning around. “Friend,” he began but Red barked and Jack dropped his pan. Glimmering bits of gold vanished into the snow. “Brock -- Red!” 

He hugged the dog around her middle and she licked his face joyous with being reunited. “Brock,” he said, straightening up. “Brock I, I thought I’d never see you again.” 

Brock stepped off the floor boards and threw himself at Jack, pressing their lips together. That affection, that love, was still there. And Brock was ready to succumb to it. He had adventured, and traveled long enough. Now it was time to answer the homing call. And that was what Jack was, after all. Home. He was warm, comfortable, safe with his arms around him. “I never thought I’d see you again,” Jack whispered, holding him tightly. “I’ve thought about you everyday. Every time I’d see someone panning I’d think it was you.” 

“I guess that indian is still givin’ his advice.” 

“Good for him. I send ‘em all away. No one pans here ‘cept you.” 

“I love you,” Brock confessed. “I love you more than I’ve loved anyone else. And I want to stay. If-if you'll have me, I want to stay.” 

“I want you to stay, I’ll always want you to stay.” 

They went back to the cabin, Little Priss pleased to be back around the familiar team. Brock saw the skeletons of the log cabin. “Did you trade Red for labor?” 

Jack looked alarmed at the mere suggestion. “She took off when you left. I think she missed TipToe seeing as he’s the one who put a litter inside of her.” 

Brock realized that she must have followed their trail to the Tutchone tribe who had taken her in. “She musta had a helluva adventure with those indians.” 

“I bet she did,” Jack said, giving her a pat. 

Brock noticed that Old Blue was nowhere to be seen and he knew Jack had noticed Scar’s absence. They weren’t ready to start grieving, not when there was so much happiness between them now Brock had come back. He felt like an idiot for leaving although he knew that it had been necessary. He’d answered the call of his heart and it no longer wanted to be on the trails. They unhitched the dogs and Jack’s attention turned to the newest member. He didn’t ask and for that Brock was grateful. They had time to talk about things. For now they needed to answer the call of skin, a call that was ingrained in the DNA of every man. 

“I could probably do with a bath,” Brock said.

“That I can do, Mr. Rumlow.” 

Brock stripped down, as Jack filled the bath. As he settled in the water, Jack stripped down to long johns and kneaded the flesh of Brock’s shoulders, tracing the curve of his neck, touching him as they had craved in the months spent together. Brock wished he had succumbed sooner but now was better than never. 

Jack washed him, intimate and slow. The actions of a man who had waited a long time to experience such. He was touched with tenderness, completely and Brock relished every second. So many nights he had dreamt of this. So many days on the sled filled with fantasies of his kisses and Jack awarded him every few minutes. Brock didn't doubt he’d had the same thoughts. He felt bad for leaving even though he knew it had been necessary. He had to finish his journey. And now that he had, he was home. That’s what Jack was. Home.

And, with Brock’s skin still wet and slippery from the water, Jack laid him out in front of the fireplace, kissing him hard, the way only men could kiss each other, and his thigh found itself against Brock’s hard cock. He rutted against it, chasing pleasure. Jack swallowed all his groans, his lips pressed to his. Brock was near blind with lust when Jack turned him over, wetting his fingers with saliva before opening Brock up. 

“This might hurt,” Jack warned softly. 

“Don’t care,” Brock replied, breathless with pleasure and nerves. 

Jack’s cock, thick and heavy, rested on the rim of his hole before he eased inside. It was painful and pleasurable all at once. Being so filled, so stretched. It was dizzying, accepting all this pleasure, taking it all in, bodies quaking with emotions held in for so long, for far, far too long… 

There weren't many chances for self pleasure when on the trail. It had been a long time since these feelings had been satisfied. Jack’s hand fell down to grip his length, a man’s grip, calloused from hauling, and building and holding a whip. They were Jack’s hands and Brock wanted them on him forever. He stroked him, long slow tugs that left Brock shuddering. 

“I’m close,” Jack whispered before taking his earlobe between his teeth, giving it a tug. 

“Me too.” 

Brock came first and Jack chased him with his own. They stayed like that for a bit, together, finally. It was warm, it promised forever. And that’s what Brock wanted -- forever. Jack got up and fetched a rag to wipe him up. He wrapped his arms around him, both staring at the fire, bathing in it’s warmth. “Were your travels good?” Jack asked. 

“It was an adventure,” Brock said. “But I’ve had enough of those.” 

“That’s a wolfdog you’ve got out there.” 

Brock nodded his head. “Scar…” 

“I know,” Jack held him tighter. “He was a good dog.” 

Hot tears ran down his face, he could still hear the echoing crack of the gunshot filling his ears. “He was a good dog.” 

“Old Blue saw his end too,” Jack said, stroking his side. “Fact of life. Death is ruthless.” 

And that it was. Brock knew there were logistics to worry about. Billie, the leader wouldn’t adjust well to a life without constant movement. Bramble and Breeze were both good dogs who, like Billie, were made to run. They had spirits that couldn’t be caged up, they couldn’t be tethered to one place. Souls of a running dog are that of the wind. Of that Brock knew to be true. It didn’t make it any easier. 

** ** ** **

Malamute Alaskan Huskies, dubbed Aluskies, found their way around the Yukon, the females red and white and the males black and white.

During the summers, Bear stalked the woods like his wild brothers but always returned to Brock. Billie and Breeze found themselves on the same team of a postal sled and Bramble went to a young negro looking to strike it rich. Tiptoes, a proud father, didn’t leave his mate’s side, a mate who never drove him away, even when whelping. Little Priss was content to stay with her master who was pleased to have her.

And Brock? He stayed too.


End file.
